


leftovers

by bloodandcream



Series: Ship all the Ships [147]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bondage, Boot Humping, Cock & Ball Torture, M/M, Masochism, Nipple Clamps, Sub Dean, saran wrap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 04:51:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11593311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: “I kind of feel like leftovers,” Dean tells no one in particular.Cain grunts. Pulls a sharp knife out of a sheath around his waist.“I might eat you up. Later.”Dean’s dick chubs up thinking about Cain’s mouth all over him, between his legs, biting hard enough to bruise.





	leftovers

The smell of sweet fresh hay in the barn tickles Dean’s nose, that itch swelling in his chest and he tries to hold it back because he doesn’t have a hand free to cover his mouth. Twisting to rub his nose on his shoulder doesn’t get rid of it, and Dean jerks as he sneezes loudly.

Cain crosses in front of him, mouth a flat line and one eyebrow raised.

“Ungh, sorry,” Dean says, “Hay fever.”

“Didn’t you take your Benadryl before you came?”

“Yeah.”

Turning his head away from Cain, Dean lets another loud sneeze out.

A breeze passes through the wide open doors, stirring up the dust, but other than a little tickle he doesn’t feel too agitated.

“I’m good, it just hasn’t kicked in yet.”

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other on top of the little stool Cain put him on, Dean flexes his wrists at his sides where they’re pinned down. Back to a support beam in the barn, rough wood digging into skin and Dean’s sure he’s going to be pulling splinters out later, he has the view to look down at Cain from up here. It’s strange. He’s usually looking up from his knees.

Roll of saran wrap still in hand, Cain pats him on the thigh and continues wrapping it around. Making slow circles, pulling the stretch wrap tight and layering it over and over and over, it almost feels like being laced into a corset. Squeezing his chest and stomach in so his ribs can’t expand more than a shallow breath. Restrained, cocooned - it feels secure.

Corsets are more comfortable, and Dean thinks wistfully of his steel-boned collection back home. Molded to his body perfectly, soft silks and velvety brocades. The saran wrap is just, strange. The plastic pulls tight over his skin and pinches where it overlaps, squeaking as Cain continues layering it down his legs.

Wrapped from neck to ankle, Cain finally stops and ties the saran wrap off on itself. He sets the rest of the role onto the old green cooler that serves as a table. There are a few chains, bits of rope, weights, sitting on it. Sometimes he just put things out on their play table to make Dean psych himself. Sometimes he actually uses them.

Even though Dean gets allergies something awful out in the country, there is a kind of relaxing energy to it. It’s quiet, sunny.

“I kind of feel like leftovers,” Dean tells no one in particular.

Cain grunts. Pulls a sharp knife out of a sheath around his waist.

“I might eat you up. Later.”

Dean’s dick chubs up thinking about Cain’s mouth all over him, between his legs, biting hard enough to bruise.

With a snick of sheared plastic, Cain rips a gash in the saran wrap from one side of Dean’s hip to the other. Drags the sharp tip of the knife up Dean’s belly, light enough not to cut, then twists it across his chest and shears the plastic there.

“Just going for the good bits, huh?”

Sometimes when Dean chats, Cain answers. Sometimes, Cain just gags him. Dean likes to hear himself talk.

Putting his knife away, Cain turns to his makeshift table. Hair pulled up in a messy ponytail to keep it off his neck in the heat curls around the nape and the temples, frizzing with the humidity. There’s a dark stain between the shoulder blades of Cain’s shirt, sleeves rolled up. It’s not something Dean would typically think of as attractive, but the way Cain holds himself, how he handles Dean, it’s hard for his dick not to notice the shift of muscle and get a little interested.

Now, what the hell’s so sexy about saran wrap, that’s beyond Dean.

He’s starting to sweat uncomfortably under all of it, but Dean is no quitter.

Coming back with clamps and chains and little weights, Cain affixes two to Dean’s nipples where they’re left exposed, tugging to make sure that the weights are on tight. Not the heaviest he’s used before, a pressure that sways with Dean’s breath. It’ll hurt more coming off. With ungentle hands, Cain tugs Dean’s junk away from the plastic wrap, loops a chain around the base and the balls, up the seam of the sack, so it works against itself when weights are clipped on in a way that pulls his balls down painfully.

Dean can’t squirm with how tight he’s wrapped to the post, so he smiles and says, “That all you got? I don’t know, seems like you’re going soft.”

Cain steps back. Shrugs. “The heat makes me lazy.”

With a swift sweep of his foot, he kicks the stool out from under Dean.

Gravity drags him down the rough post and the tension of the saran wrap holds him to it, the plastic digging in deep and it feels like every time he breathes out the wrap bites into his skin tighter, making it even harder to breath in.

“Shit.”

Little weights swaying, pinging lances of acute pain in his groin and chest, Dean curls his toes and grits his teeth and stops struggling. That only makes it worse.

For his part, Cain has walked away, picked up a book and sat on his folding chair. Every now and then, he looks at Dean over the top of the book as he flips a page.

So there’s Dean, spending a Saturday afternoon at his dom’s old farmhouse, saran wrapped to a barn post with shit hanging on his junk and splinters in his back, and despite the chain securely looped around the base of his dick he gets ragingly, achingly hard. It only makes it worse that he’s completely helpless. Can’t touch himself. Hump against a shoe or a floor or a bench. Nope, there’s just the breeze through the barn and the little weights swaying to provide enough stimulation to get him work up and not enough to relieve anything, but he won’t give Cain the satisfaction of begging.

The sweat still building under the saran wrap slicks his skin and he slides down the post in fractions. It trickles down the curve of his spine, every wet bead of it tickling his skin. He starts to get light headed from having difficulty breathing, panting desperately and he’s probably making it worse himself.

A cool hand presses to his forehead, and Dean didn’t even realize he’s squeezed his eyes shut.

“Can’t leave you too long in this heat,” Cain murmurs.

Dean’s a little delirious.

The pressure crushing his entire body relents with a swipe of Cain’s knife, from the ankles up to his shoulders, and Dean falls, sags, leaning heavily against Cain. Calloused hands squeeze his arms, ease him down to kneeling and Dean leans against the post. His back is scraped raw, splinters stinging and he’s not sure if he’s bleeding or if it’s all just sweat. Cain pulls something out of the cooler, presses an ice pack to Dean’s forehead. The cold shocks his system, clears his head and Dean surges up, rubbing his whole face against the pack with an exaggerated groan of appreciation.

Holding the pack with one hand, Cain stoops over him, grasps onto one of the nipple clamps and yanks.

“Sonofabitch!”

Dean hasn’t caught his breath when the other is pulled off. His whole chest feels raw with the throbbing pain left behind. Skin tingling as blood flow comes back everywhere the saran wrap had pinched and dug into him, all fever achy, knees to the rough barn floor, Dean whines and curls closer to Cain, rutting against his leg.

Straightening, Cain puts a boot to Dean’s chest and pushes him back against the post. Pain flares along his tender back, rough sole of the boot dragging down, dick still tied up and weighed swollen red and over-engorged. Cain traps it against Dean’s thigh and pushes. Dean stays where he’s put, rocks his hips up, chains pinching into his skin as he fucks against Cain’s boot.

It doesn’t take him long to come like that.

“Let’s get those splinters out of your back,” Cain says, dragging his boot over Dean’s thigh all come sticky, “Then I’m going to eat you for dinner.”


End file.
